


Sometimes I hate the line I walk

by bofurrific



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha!Steve, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Miscarriage, Rumlow isn't a total cunt, Steve is not a good alpha, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, omega!Rumlow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 21:57:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1999404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bofurrific/pseuds/bofurrific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for avengerkink</p>
<p>Rumlow finds out that he's pregnant during CA:TWS, and realizes that this is his chance to finally leave HYDRA - to grab Bucky and run, or to confess everything to Steve. </p>
<p>He gets blown out of a building first, and loses the baby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes I hate the line I walk

Omegas, unlike normal humans, know much earlier when they are pregnant. The moment that second heartbeat starts up inside them, they know. 

When Brock wakes up in a hospital bed, it’s the first thing he notices. Through the steady pulsing agony of his charred skin and broken bones, one thing makes him wish he’d never woken up at all: that heartbeat is gone. 

There is no order that comes from this pain, no sweetly sharp clarity or calm; Brock wants to curl around his empty womb and scream until his throat bleeds. He settles for pushing the dosage button on the morphine drip until it fills him with a sick chemical stillness. And just as the drug-induced haze lets him slip into oblivion, he makes out the blurry red, white, and blue form of his mate standing, arms crossed and heavy with disappointment and betrayal, in the doorway and his last thought is, “Oh god, _Steve_.” He never knew. 

The next time Brock wakes up, Steve is back, standing in the same disappointed position. There’s nothing to say in his defense, he knows; he betrayed Steve, his _mate_ , and had been prepared to kill millions of people in the name HYDRA. It didn’t matter that the moment he felt that secondary heartbeat, hell, the moment he had let Steve mark him, Brock had wanted to get out, get free, start a new life with his alpha and pup and forget about Pierce and Winter Soldiers and missions.

There’s an instant where he wants to reach out, spill everything and cling to his alpha, be comforted like an omega should. But when he feels for the bond between them, looking to wrap himself in it, he finds that is has gone cold and dark. Bonds can’t be severed by anything but death and he can feel it there still, but Steve has slammed it closed, abandoned him.

Brock wishes he could say he didn’t deserve it. His hand drops back to his side. It doesn’t matter now anyway.

The torture Brock was anticipating doesn’t come. Maybe they think he’s worthless now, skin crisped and immobile on the bed. They question him, they lower his morphine dosage so he can’t slip into oblivion and pretend they don’t exist, but they don’t touch him otherwise. He had been expecting them to take him out back and shoot him like a rabid dog. He almost wishes they’d do that instead.

Steve doesn’t come back. Brock tries not to miss him. 

Brock wonders sometimes if the baby is even in his charts, if the doctors thought to look when they were sloughing off his charcoaled flesh and resetting his bones. He wonders, if it is, if Steve was made aware. He’s afraid to ask. If Steve knows, maybe he just doesn’t care; maybe he’s _glad_ the spawn of his traitor mate was terminated before it ever had fingertips. The thought makes the room smaller and Brock’s breath come in tight, sharp little gasps, hands clenching with a pain that can’t be soothed by an IV drip. 

His skin heals, the hollowness doesn’t. He’d never wanted a pup, not really, but now that one has been taken from him, he’s not sure he knows how to breathe without it. Everything is deafeningly silent without that little heartbeat tucked beneath his own.

Brock needs the pain, _needs_ to be cuffed to a desk and smacked around, fingers broken and face bruised. He needs something but this godawful _emptiness_ and they won’t fucking give it to him. The absence of pain is worse than the pain itself. They keep on an eye on him, what’s left of S.H.I.E.L.D. but they let him walk around. Every time he turns a corner there’s a hiss or a snarl. _Traitor_. _Killer. Bond-breaker._ Like any of them is fucking better, like their fucking hands are clean. 

Steve avoids him completely, turns away when they cross paths, leaves a room he enters. He catches the captain, once, with an arm around Winter and they look good together, look _right_ and later someone tells him in a jeering tone that Rogers has been looking for a way to break their bond completely. 

 It shouldn’t hurt the way it does, pounding like a steady ache in his empty womb. It’s not like Steve is really his anymore, not like he has anything to offer. 

Brock swipes a pistol and shuts himself in a room. It’s stupidly easy and he hates himself for not trying earlier. The M9 is heavy and solid in his hands, the metal cool on his tongue when he closes his lips around it and closes his eyes. He rests a hand on his stomach -so empty, so _wrong_ and empty- and whispers that he’s sorry, to Steve, to the baby, to himself, he isn’t sure. 

He doesn’t pull the trigger. 

The gun stays in his mouth, a comforting weight, and he screams at himself to just fucking do it already; he’s not afraid of pain and he’s not afraid of death, but his finger won’t move and he has never hated himself more.

The door opens. Brock freezes. Of course it’s fucking Steve, now after all this time, who walks in. He waits for the gun to be ripped from his mouth, to be grabbed and shaken and have an answer demanded from him. But Steve stays still and the only sound in the room is a low “coward” and he can’t even fucking argue because it’s so true.

The gun leaves his mouth, falls into his lap, and Brock nods. His head falls back against the window behind him and Steve hasn’t left yet and the words leave him before he realizes he’s even opened his mouth. 

“I was pregnant.”

And once he’s said it, the words hanging between them in the room, it’s _real_ and it _hurts,_ more than what he’s been trained to handle. His eyes are hot and the tears run over, his breath catching in his throat and choking him. Brock curls in on himself, one arm around his stomach and bites back sobs until he’s gagging on them and he needs his fucking alpha, but when he looks up at the blurry room, Steve is gone. Brock claws at his face and screams.

The jeers in the hall stop. No one knows what to say. The heavy silence and muted pity is worse. Brock goes out and decides not to come back. No one stops him.

Steve doesn’t follow. It’s better this way. 

Brock goes to the park and thinks about pushing the baby on the swings, about picnics and kisses and “Daddy” laughed on little lips. He manages to pull the trigger this time.

 


End file.
